TF2 The Decider
by Theodore Barrington
Summary: Okay, this is a little more than just the origins of the team. I thought, 'What if they had another, completely different team, and both fought to see who would feature in the game' So yeah...some OC's involved. Feedback is welcome and ENJOY!
1. Meet the Scout, Meet the Enforcer

"Ohmanohmanohman," gasped Keith Bauer as he raced through the streets. The Bostonian was quick on his feet, dodging bins and leaping over discarded couches, television sets, kitchen cabinets and even the odd motor or too. It _had _to be collection day, everyone had something to get rid of. He risked a glance behind him and noticed that the men chasing him didn't appear to be gaining much ground. Bauer was naturally fast. In fact, if he had ever been bothered to actually train, he most likely could have been a great professional track-runner. But of course, it was 'too much work'. But when he felt the need for speed, he bolted like a deer. He was definitely feeling the need now!

Sure the day hadn't started off with him running for his life. In fact, that day had been relatively good. Fantastic even. It was a Saturday, meaning that he didn't have to work, not that his job as a delivery boy was particularly stressful. He didn't even have to drive the van, just leap out as they got to each destination, drop off the package, get a signature and that was it. The pay wasn't great, but each dollar was another step closer to getting his own car. It was a little embarrassing to be the only one of his friends without one, especially with his twentieth birthday only weeks away. His mother, a five-year widow worked a few shifts down at the local diner - like today for instance- and his older brother was in the Army reserves, so he had the house to himself.

After_ finally_ waking up at ten minutes to midday, he planned on doing nothing more than just kicking it around home, watch some TV, until he remembered he had a lunch date with Sareena, probably the hottest girl in the neighborhood. He'd finally mustered the courage to ask her out, and he'd be damned if he stood her up. He rushed around, getting dressed as quickly as he could. Although he would be pushing it, he managed to shower, shave and was out the door in half an hour. His mother had ended up taking her car after all, so he was stuck with the bus. Fortunately, it was actually running on time for once.

"Keith!" she had called out, waving to him from across the road, when he arrived.

"Hey pretty lady," he had said, "Sorry I'm late, I stopped to help an old lady get her cat down from a tree after saving a whole bunch of children from a burning orphanage."

She laughed.

"It's okay, you aren't that late hero. I'll let you make it up to me for buying lunch."

"Sure thing Sareena."

And so they ate, talked, he managed not to spill anything on either himself or his date. Everything was going fine. Then they decided to go for a walk in the nearby park. It was a pleasant warm afternoon and hardly anyone was around. She had excused herself to go to the ladies' room, which was in surprisingly good condition considering it was a public bathroom.

Which is when things started to go downhill.

Keith wasn't sure, but he could have sworn he had heard someone scream. At first he just ignored it, whatever it was, it wasn't his problem. But then he thought that if he went to investigate, it might be a way to really impress Sareena. That would definitely get him some lip-action. Smirking, he jogged towards the sound. As he parted the bushes, he wished he hadn't. It was a middle aged woman, getting mugged by three guys, roughly his age. A bald man and another with a snake tattoo on his right arm pinned her arms back while the third – who was wearing a leather jacket- went through her purse. Bauer figured that if he was quiet enough, he could sneak away, find Sareena and then get the hell out of there. But the lady had seen him and screamed for him to help.

"Hey, that kid, he's gonna rat us out!" exclaimed Tattoo

"Not if we shut him up first," Jacket replied and the chase was on. The woman was forgotten.

So there he was, being chased by three very unpleasant individuals. He ducked into a side alley, sprinting for all he was worth, the punks weren't far behind. Naturally, there was a dead end, but that didn't stop him. He leaped up, using the dumpster to kick off and propel himself towards the wall. Managing to get a grip with both hands, he scrambled up and over. Keith hit the ground running, took a sharp right, then climbed the chain-link fence. When he landed, he paused for a moment to catch his breath, before a sound alerted him to the fact that he was not alone. It was Baldy. He must have separated and taken a short-cut to intercept him and was now holding a wooden baseball bat. He could hear the others behind him. Fueled with adrenaline, Keith charged in, low and fast, before Baldy could swing properly and shoulder-charged him. Playing football in high school sure paid off. Not that he really showed up for training for that either. He played to meet cheerleaders.

Because Baldy was down, he now had a weapon. Hiding, he waited until they rounded the corner before taking a wild swing. The bat caught Jacket on the shoulder, followed up with a kick to the groin. Then he jabbed the bat into Tattoo's stomach.

"Steeeerrrrrrike three, you're outta there," quipped Keith as the punk sank too his knees. "Nobody messes with Bauer!"

"Hey, what the hell?"

Keith turned and saw another two guys, armed with some heavy looking chains. Baldy was getting up as well, pulling a switchblade from his pocket. Keith dropped the bat and ran.

"Crap! Crap! Crap!"

As he raced out onto the street, a black sedan pulled up next to him.

"Hurry, get in!" a female voice said as the passenger door swung open. He didn't hesitate. The tires screeched as they pulled away, leaving the punks choking on the dust. Keith took a look at his rescuer, an attractive thirty-something woman, dressed entirely in red.

"Uh....thanks for the save lady," he said when they reached the main street, becoming part of the traffic flow. "Do you think you could drop me off at the park?"

"I'm afraid that won't be possible Mr. Bauer."

"What do you mean it won't be possible? And how do you know my name?"

"I know quite a bit about you, but that's beside the point."

"But who are you?"

"That's on a need to know basis, which you don't. What you _do_ need to know is that the company I work for has had there eye on you for a while now, and we have a job for you.

"Thanks, but I already have one."

"One that pays over two hundred grand a year?"

If Keith had been eating anything, he would have choked in shock.

"Well no, but the hours are decent," he said and chuckled at his own joke.

The lady in red wasn't laughing.

"Uh...but anyway, I don't think want to get into anything without some more info. I'm pretty happy where I am."

The lady applied the brakes and turned to look at him.

"Mr. Bauer, you have a choice. You can come and work for us at Reliable Excavators and Demolitions, or I could take you back to your friends back there and let you sort out your differences by yourself. But make your decision quickly, we are on a tight schedule."

Keith thought about this. There was no way he wanted to go back there. Sure, Sareena would probably wonder what had happened to him and maybe even never want to see him again, but there were other fish in the sea.

"Okay, let's do this then."

A faint trace of a smile crossed her face and started moving again.

"Don't worry about telling your family, we will have that taken care of."

***

"Don't worry about your family, they will be taken care of."

Meanwhile, across the globe, a thickset, pug-faced man pulled off his green pinstripe jacket. Giovanni Gambino faced the man in front of him, who's arms and legs were tied so that he was pinned up against the wall like a butterfly in a display case. The look of defiance in his eyes was obvious, but it was Giovanni's job to turn it into fear. Not for nothing was he one of the top enforcers for the mob. He slipped a set of brass knuckles over his hand then drove his fist into the man's gut.

"Did you really think you could get away with stealing from the Gambinos Joey? What is it with you Americans eh? Always tryin' to muscle in on somebody else's turf, tryin' to take away what some poor guy has worked so hard to earn? Whaddaya gotta say for ya self huh?"

"Kiss... my... ass.." said Joey as he gasped for air.

"Wrong answer," the mobster replied and hit the American three more times. This was probably his favorite part of his job. He enjoyed inflicting pain on those that crossed him or his family. Being the primary enforcer for his uncle Leo - the Don- the opportunity often presented itself.

"Again, where are they. Seven million in white goods don't just 'get lost'. My uncle is growing impatient."

"Bite me!"

Gambino wrapped a meaty hand around the man's face and slammed his head back against the wall.

"Don't tempt me."

He let go and walked back over to the table, where he picked up a baseball bat. A Louisville slugger to be precise.

"I gotta say one thing about you Americans. You sure know how to make a good bat."

Then he swung out, bringing the weapon down on Joey's kneecap. Joey howled in pain. Gambino grabbed the duct-tape from off the table and sealed his victim's mouth shut.

"Maybe you'll be a little more cooperative with a few less fingers.

Joey's eyes widened in horror and gave a muffled cry as his captor took a length of piano wire and held it taut.

"Welcome to Italy eh?"

Ten minutes later, he stepped outside, leaving Joey alone and sobbing in the dark. His lookout, Tony had just been on his mobile phone.

"Your uncle just called, he wants to see you now."

"Alright, take Joey for a little ride to the docks. See if he squeals. If he doesn't...." the sentence didn't need finishing.

"No problem Gio."

The first thing Gambino noticed as he stepped into his uncle's office is that they were not alone. Sitting awkwardly in one of the big leather chairs, was a small, balding man, dressed in a smart blue dinner suite.

"Hello Giovanni," Leo said, motioning for him to sit. "I trust that the business with our.....friend was resolved?"

"Not quite sir. But Tony is working on it as we speak."

"Good." The Don inclined his head towards the man in blue. "This man here is Mr. Smith. He has a rather interesting proposal for you."

Gambino looked the man up and down warily. He guessed that Smith wasn't the man's real name.

"Er....yes. Mr. Gambino, I represent a company known as the Builders League United and although we try not to pry in the affairs of your," he paused, choosing his words carefully. "...business, we could not but help noticing your....shall we say....talents in your chosen profession. Therefore, we'd like to offer you a chance to work with us. The pay will be quite substantial and you will be free to leave anytime you like."

Giovanni raised an eyebrow. He'd never heard of this company, but obviously his uncle had.

"We cannot reveal anything more to you until you accept, however we will be leaving the country immediately."

Gambino stood up and paced over to the window, looking out over the city.

"Mr. Smith. While I am flattered by such a generous offer, I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline."

"Very well, the choice is yours. I do hope that you will reconsider," said Smith and prepared to leave.

"Wait a minute!" commanded the Don. He got up and joined his enforcer over by the window.

"Giovanni, listen to me. I want you to accept this man's proposition," he said in their native tongue.

"But Uncle, I cannot go, my place is here by your side."

"I am touched by your loyalty my friend. You are a good man. But..."

"But I can't leave Sally. She is expecting our first child!"

"You will only be gone for a while, you'll be back in time to be with your wife. Look, you have been like a son to me. You have done much for the family and you are good at what you do. But I think that perhaps it is time to stretch your wings. When was the last time you were out of Naples? '99?"

"It was only five years ago sir, but I wish..."

"Ah....no arguments. I am asking you to go, not only as your uncle, but as the Don," Leo didn't normally throw his title around, so when he did, he was serious. "Tony can take over for a while and Sally will be cared for. Don't worry, you'll be back before you know it."

Gambino sighed and turned to the representative.

"Well?" asked Smith.

"I accept."

"Excellent. The driver is waiting outside. Don't worry about clothes or equipment, everything will be provided for you. You may call your wife when we get there."

Gambino hugged his uncle goodbye.

"Well sir, I must thank you for....er...lending me your nephew. Your money should arrive by tomorrow. It has been a pleasure doing business with you."

Leo Gambino nodded.

"Just make sure he comes back alive and well or you will never walk again."

"Understood sir."

And then they left.


	2. Meet the Engineer

**(Just a quick note: Don't worry, there will be a double helping of action in the next Part. All reviews/comments/flames are welcomed and appreciated.)**

_Sure, it seemed normal enough; he was back at high school, the ten year reunion. There was Dudley Jones standing at the doorway and Gary Gillman was over by the punch bowel. Someone called out to him, asked him what he did these days. But when he tried to speak, nothing would come out. Then he sank through the floor, ending up in a large room with a checkerboard floor. There was everyone from school, with large, distorted, demonic faces, floating above him, leering and jeering as he ran from what appeared to be a broom-riding witch with a very familiar face, and then he was falling..._

Travis Jonathan Franklin Jr. awoke with a start. He shook his head as he re-orientated himself. He looked at the alarm-clock. It would be another hour until it rang, yet again he had woken up earlier than necessary and he wouldn't be able to get to sleep. Franklin sighed and went to the bathroom. After taking care of business, Travis paused to take a look in the mirror. Yep, those rings under his bloodshot eyes were still there, the result of yet another restless night. It had been nine months now since his divorce with Sharon and he was still reeling from all the alimony payments. She had managed to get some of the finest lawyers in Texas, who proceeded to help her drain most of his money. Whatever small wages he earned as self-employed mechanic, at least half of it went into her purse. But he was always one to look on the bright side. At least he still had his little piece of land out in the country and his privacy. At least he didn't have armed thugs at his door every fortnight, threatening beat him to a pulp if he didn't cough up the dough. Although in a matter of speaking, that's what was already happening.

He was a man of simple tastes, the polar opposite of the ever-materialistic Sharon. His usual attire consisted mainly of a polo shirt – flannel in the winter- overalls and a decent pair of boots. And his hard-hat. Never went anywhere without his hard-hat. For the past two years, he'd had it. Gotten it for Christmas from the woman who had been his wife. It was really more of a gift given out of obligation than a thoughtful gesture; she just bought the first thing she saw. He didn't care and wore it anyway because he loved her. Even though the feeling wasn't mutual. Even after she had announced that she was leaving him after four rough years. Sure he was sad that she had gone, but he was too easy-going to hold much of a grudge.

Walking outside, he smiled as Jake ran up to him.

"Hey, boy, how ya doin'?" he said as the black Labrador jumped up excitedly at the sight of his master. Franklin strolled over to the shed, whistling cheerfully. There next to his old battered pick-up truck was his trusty quad-bike. After packing his fishing gear onto the back -he had decided to catch his own breakfast- he gunned the engine and took off along the open field, Jake running alongside. There was a small stream that ran through the bottom of his property. There wasn't really anything else on the farm; he hadn't had any livestock on the farm for years. Often they would go to the stream, Travis would fish as Jake explored the woods or they'd play fetch. Sometimes they just lay atop of a grassy hillock and watch the sky.

After a few hours without any luck, he decided to pack it in and just settle for some tinned beef. Whistling for his friend, he headed back to the house.

When he got there, he noticed that they had company. A black sedan was parked outside. Travis frowned. He wasn't expecting anyone. He killed the motor and walked the rest of the way, so as not to alert whoever it was of his return. Stopping off by the shed to fetch his pistol, he quietly made his way over to the front door. It had been left wide open. The Labrador issued a deep growl. He slowly searched each room, gun by his side in a non-threatening way, but was ready to use it if he had to.

He found her in the dinning room, seated at the table, a lady in a striking red dress.

"Howdy there ma'am," he drawled. If she was surprised by his sudden appearance, she gave no indication of it.

"Hello Mr. Franklin. You can put your gun down, I only wish to talk."

"You'll have to forgive me. A man gets a little suspicious when he finds a mysterious woman in his home."

"Understandable. However the door was open and I assumed you were in."

"Well I'm here now. Can I get you a drink or somethin'?"

"No thank-you. I want to get straight to the point."

Laying the gun down on the table, Travis sat down opposite her.

"Mr. Franklin, I represent Reliable Excavations and Demolitions. Apparently you were approached by a rogue military faction some time ago and asked to build a number of weapons. We would like to see the finished products."

The Texan's eyes narrowed. "How did you know about that?"

"We know quite a bit about you Mr. Franklin. We know that you spent a decade in the oil fields; you have 11 PhDs ranging from mechanics to physics. We know that you have recently been through a particularly rough divorce, which has left you with little money. We'd like to help you with your current financial situation, as we are willing to pay you a hefty sum to work for us."

"Hmm....sounds like an interesting offer. I guess I better show ya my work huh?"

Walking back to the shed, Travis had to restrain Jake, who obviously didn't like the stranger. She didn't care. He removed a tarpaulin and revealed what appeared to be some form of gun atop a tripod. Reaching behind it, he flicked a switch, and it sprang to life.

"I call this baby a Sentry Gun. It's fully automated with state-of- the-art motion sensors, designed to fire upon any bad dudes who enter the line of fire. It's powered by a small generator attached to the back of it. It can rotate a full three-sixty degrees and up to ninety vertically. Most of the time it will be scanning the area for potential threats. Once it locks on, it will keep shooting until either the target is destroyed or the magazine is depleted it needs to be reloaded manually. It can fire .50 cal. Rounds at a rate of one hundred a minute."

The lady in red slowly moved her arm back and forth in front of the weapon's muzzle. It followed the motion and clicked rapidly.

"At the moment, it isn't loaded. My.... funding... was cut off before I could commence testing, but it should still work just fine."

"Most impressive Mr. Franklin. But what about friendly fire?"

"Actually I did think about that. I have a special computer that can analyze a DNA sample and transmit certain signals to the Sentry so that it won't fire on any persons with a genetic match. It's pre-programmed to recognize my DNA, which is why it responds to your movements rather than mine. I can only add up to twelve sets, so it's really only good for small specialist groups."

"Excellent. Mr. Travis, you are hired. You should go gather all of your blueprints and we will depart immediately. A truck will be by soon to pick up your Sentry and any other prototypes you have."

"Wait.... you mean I don't get a say in this? I mean, I don't wanna leave my property, and I can't just abandon Jake."

"You can refuse our offer, in which case, we can make no assurances that your land won't be seized by the government due to your lack of financial stability. If you accept, we will ensure that this land is yours for as long as you want it. Someone else will have to take care of your dog."

Travis slumped forward, face in his hands as he thought about it. Yes it would be incredibly difficult to leave his place. Yet he couldn't lose it to tax collectors either. Perhaps that if he worked diligently, he'd be back before too long and with a little money in his pocket as well.

Finally he decided to go through with it. He gathered all of his designs and packed a few changes of clothes. He managed to convince the woman to drive half a mile up the road to the Kendall residence; they would look after Jake on a property bigger than his own and with actual sheep to round up. It was an effort for Travis not to tear up as he held his best friend for the last time. As the black sedan pulled away, Jake, noticing that his master was leaving without him, gave chase. But the car accelerated and left him behind in the dust, howling miserably. For the first and final time, man and canine were separated.

Couldn't bring himself to look back in the rearview mirror. He couldn't bring himself to sit in the passenger seat and talk to the driver. The normally chatty Texan just wasn't in the mood. Instead, he clutched his hard-hat, as a child would hold a security blanket.


	3. Meet the Demoman Meet the Mercenary

_[Alright, I don't know much about explosives, nor am I very scientifically minded. I just kinda took a MacGyver approach and used what sounded plausible to me. Like when they blew up the shark in Jaws but probably not as good. And because my little arrow brackets didn't work last time, I'm just going with if it is italicized, it is in the characters native language. Enjoy!]_

It was a very lonely man who sat at the bar. It was half an hour until closing time and his scotch was untouched. For all of those who knew him, this was a very strange sight indeed. Instead of drinking himself silly, he took a rare moment to just sit there and contemplate his life. Only a few years ago, he had changed his name to Angus MacAlpin, another attempt to just forget about his past. Which explained the drinking. And yet, some memory would, on occasion, seep through his defences. Like now for instance. He absently tapped his eye patch, recalling his childhood.

Young Tavish DeGroot had always had a fascination for explosives. Firecrackers, explosives or anything else that went bang and erupted in a ball of flame. At only five years old, he had started experimenting with gunpowder. When he was six, he had invented a primitive depth charge in order to kill the Loch Ness monster, a plan that was unfortunately foiled by his parents. Unfortunate, because the bomb was unstable and as soon as they took it out of the water, little Tavish was short two parents. Later he discovered that he was adopted, a fact that would explain the contrast in skin color between himself and his family. The day after, he was bundled off to a boarding school for orphans, ominously known as Crypt Grammar. His often morbid tenancies of talking to himself and stealing anything combustible he could get his hands on made it difficult for him to make friends. The teachers often tried to discourage his anti-social behavior, not so much out of concern for his wellbeing than concern for the potential destruction of property. Predictably, when he didn't listen to their warnings, he was injured. A nasty incident with a small rocket and a tad too much gunpowder, which left him with less eyes than when he started. He spent many more lonely days at the school until one day, a middle-aged couple arrived and revealed themselves as his biological parents. They also explained how his love for pyrotechnics was considered to be the norm in amongst the DeGroots, although they became strangely evasive any time he asked why they had abandoned him. He then spent twelve wonderful years, re-united with his family, picnics in the park, trips to the seaside and blowing things up. Then tragedy struck. Again.

Tavish had entered the family business, working with his father to demolish buildings all over Scotland. One day, during a standard demolition, a miscommunication between him and another apprentice resulted in his father being killed under several tonnes of rubble. Meanwhile, his mother was involved in a horrific car crash. The fact that he had died doing what he loved and that she went out with a bang – as she had always wanted- little consolation to Tavish. But unable to cope with the loss of yet another set of parents, he decided to disband the business,change his name and move to England where he took a job as a groundsman at a stately mansion and frequented the local pubs. Turning his back on anything to do with explosions, Tavish DeGroot became Angus MacAlpin.

A rough shove interrupted his brooding, accompanied by harsh laughing. Luckily he wasn't holding his scotch, or it would have spilled. He turned and saw the grinning skinhead and his friend standing behind him.

"Aye? Ken I help ya gents?" he asked, trying the civilised approach.

"Yeah Taffy, move yer haggis-scoffin' arse off me stool!" replied the skinhead, getting a laugh of approval from his chum. MacAlpin could smell the liquor on the man's breath, who was obviously already sloshed.

"Sorry mate, I dinnae realize this wa' yours," the Scot said, vacating the seat. The skinhead took a good look at him. "Cor, you're a regular cyclops ain't ya?"

"A black cyclops," laughed his friend.

"Actually, tha's a black _Scottish_ cyclops," MacAlpin joked.

"Shut it Taff. Just be quiet and take it like your mother."

MacAlpin wasn't smiling. "You talk abou' my mother like tha' again you and yer' gunna get it."

They just kept on laughing and made several more crass remarks.

Angus caught the attention of the bartender and made an order. "A bottle o' gin mate." Moments later, he was chugging it down as though his life depended on it. Without warning, he spun around and smashed the bottle over his tormentor's head. A mixture of blood and alchohol dripped onto the floor as the skinhead wobbled then collapsed. His friend stopped laughing. The other patrons ceased their activities to watch. With an angry cry, the friend rushed at MacAlpin, who tossed the remaining bottle aside so that he could deal with the man properly. He'd been in plenty of fights before and knew how to handle himself. As his attacker came within reach, he side-stepped, grabbed his arms and -twisting at the hip- threw him onto the nearest table. A couple of good, solid punches laid out the off-sider.

"An' good night t' ya ladies!" he crowed then looked around. "Any you other dandies wan' a go?"

No-one else said anything, so he went back to the bar and downed his scotch.

"'Nother one here bar-keep. Make it a double eh?"

Minutes later, MacAlpin staggered out of the pub, more than a little tipsy. He cursed as he fumbled with his car keys and ended up dropping them down a grate. Perhaps he would just walk home. After a few false starts, he managed to head in the right direction and eventually made it back to his small room on the manor grounds without alerting his employers. It was a good thing they didn't have any dogs.

The next morning was rudely awoken by the owner of the property. The loud knocking did nothing to help his hangover, nor did the task that had suddenly been thrust upon him improve his mood. Apparently they had some visitors in the early hours who had deposited several rotting pig carcasses on the front lawn. A terrible shock for the lady of the manor. Because the only security cameras were in and around the actual house, there were no clues as to who did it. Angus suspected that it was related to last night's incident. After removing the dead animals, he disappeared into the shed. Although he had promised himself that he would never dabble with explosives again, this was a matter of honor. Using some fuel from the mower,, a spark plug, wire, an large jar and several aerosol cans, he spent the next hour constructing a makeshift bomb.

That afternoon, a lone figure approached apartment 113 on Gettys Avenue, the abode of several known local troublemakers. The man held what looked like a jar of petrol with three cans of

spray-paint tied to it. MacAlpin decided at the last minute that he would use a good amount of tree sap to stick the bomb to the small wooden gate out the front. Crossing the street out of blast-range, he threw a rock at the front window, resulting in a loud noise and leaving a large crack in the glass. As he had hoped, the skin-head heard the noise and raced out to confront the fool who dared to hassle him. Seeing Angus, he started towards him, spouting obscenities as he went. The Scotsman just gave a cheeky grin, saluted and turned his key in the ignition. As the engine roared to life, electricity surged down an extra long jumper-cable, putting a charge into the spark plug inside the jar, igniting the fuel. The aerosol cans added to the explosion which sent the skin-head flying backwards. MacAlpin laughed as he watched the man rolling around on the ground, trying to extinguish the flames. He'd survive, but would probably be in the hospital for a while with some particularly nasty burns. He didn't bother to detach the cable, it wasn't his car after all. Chuckling to himself, he started walking home. For a moment, he was chilled by the fact that his cruel streak had re-surfaced, but only for a moment.

A grey sedan pulled up along beside him and sounded it's horn, shattering his train of thought. A window rolled down, revealing a lady dressed in red.

"Angus MacAlpin?"

"Who want's ta know?"

"Someone who is interested in employing you."

"Aye, tha's me."

"Please get in. We need to talk."

* * *

[Bloody Pikers…where are my asterisks eh? Scene Change]

"We need to talk!"

"I thought I told you not to come here."

Pele Hernandez glared at the nervous looking man standing over him. After all, when a white American guy walks into a small pub in Brazil, he tended to draw unwanted attention.

"Yeah I know but-"

"But nothing Bobby. You are gonna get yourself into an ass-load of trouble and I don't want to have to pull you out."

"C'mon man!"

"Fine, make it quick."

Bobby sat down and tried to calm himself.

"You remember that Julia girl? Well last night she was over..."

"I don't need to know about it. Get to the point."

"Well, the next morning, I went out early to get some coffee and there was this body at my door."

Pele frowned. "A body?"

"Yeah, some other guy from staying in the same hotel. He'd been like shot five times, Julia was in hysterics when she saw it..."

"BOBBY!"

"Sorry, anyway, he had this pinned to his chest." He pulled a blood-stained note out of his pocket and gave it to Pele. It was a hand-drawn spider, feasting on a small rodent.

"The Tarantulas?"

"That's them. They're after me, but I didn't do anything."

"You didn't have to. You're American. That's plenty of reason to kill you."

"You gotta help me man, I'm begging you."

Pele sighed. "I can't do anything. These guys want you dead, they'll kill both of us if they have to. Just get the hell out of Brazil. Get the next flight out, go back to the States."

"What about Julia, I can't just leave her!"

"Why not? It's not like you actually mean anything to her. Now stop arguing and get out of here. I mean it!"

"You're right, I gotta leave," Bobby turned and started walking to the door, only to be cut off by a large, pot-bellied man.

"Where do you think your going pretty boy? You wanna buy me a drink?" He grinned, showing the few yellowish brown teeth he had left.

"_Let him past," _Pele said, speaking in Portuguese.

"_Oh, I didn't know this was your boyfriend, I'm sorry," _said the man, not budging. Hernandez kicked the man in the stomach, grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back then pinned him to the wall.

"_You're lucky I'm in a hurry. Otherwise I would knock out the rest of your teeth, break your arms and then cut off your cajones." _The man said nothing, sinking to his knees when Pele released then elbowed him in the back of the neck.

Pele turned to Bobby. "You're gonna need help. Let's go."

Once outside, they raced to Bobby's Jeep and jumped in. As they bumped along the road, Pele kept checking behind them to make sure they weren't being followed.

"Bobby, you're going the wrong way, the airport is back the other way. Turn around!"

"I know, I just need to get a few things from the hotel first."

"TURN AROUND DAMN IT!"

"Relax, it won't take long, it's just ahead."

"You don't get it, this is Tarantula territory."

Bobby slammed on the brakes. A fallen tree was blocking the road.

"What the hell?"

"They must have been expecting someone to drive through here. They're close by."

"Well maybe we can get out of here," said Bobby, putting the jeep into reverse. But before they could move, there was a gunshot. Four guerillas revealed themselves from their hiding places, machine-guns aimed at the two men.

"Don't move!" one of them said in broken English.

Pele put up his hands. "_Don't shoot! I'm with the Tarantulas!" _he yelled and rolled up his sleeve, revealing the his spider tattoo. Bobby's eyes widened when he saw it. "Wait...you're a Tarantula?

"I was..."

The mercenary who had spoken before cut him off.

"_Alright then, you get out of the Jeep, but the gringo stays in."_

Motioning for the American to stay put, Hernandez stepped out of the vehicle and walked over to the group.

"You should not have stayed in Brazil fella!" sneered another merc, "But now you come to us, we can kill you right here!"

"What? No! Pele, help me out here man, tell 'em I'm with you!"

"Sorry Bobby. I warned you."

"_Shoot the bastard!"_

Bobby barely got out of the Jeep when he was cut down.

The first guerilla walked over, kicked the body then turned to Hernandez.

"_Who are you?"_

"_Pele Hernandez"_

"_You say you were a Tarantula. How come I've never seen you around?"_

" _I was there when the Tarantulas were formed my friend. One day I had a little argument with another member, so I decided to leave. But it seems that once your a Tarantula, you're in it for life."_

"_You're coming back to camp. Move."_

When they reached the presidio, they went straight to the biggest tent and called for their leader. Pele looked around. They had certainly expanded their numbers since he had left. He recognized a few faces, but most of them were unfamiliar to him. They lounged about, talking, drinking or playing cards. It seemed that a few of the local girls were there, providing entertainment of a more intimate nature.

"_Hello Pele. Did you miss me?"_

Hernandez recognized the man who stepped out immediately- Hugo Estevez. Standing at only 5'9'', and more than a little overweight, the leader of the Tarantulas didn't look like much. But he was a cruel, cunning, unscrupulous individual who ruled his band of rebels with an iron fist.

"_Hello Hugo."_

"_Running away like you did wasn't very nice. It hurt me that you abandoned us, your family." _

" _I had a few issues with Raoul. Especially after he killed my brother. My __**real**__ family."_

"_Yes, that was unfortunate. But Raoul is no longer with us. But now that you are back sooner than I thought, I think I might just have a way for you to make it up to me."_

At that moment, a small balding man, dressed in a powder-blue suit came out of the tent.

"This is Mister Smith," said Estevez, switching to English for the benefit of the guest. "He is from a company called the Builders League United and they are looking for someone with...certain talents to ...how you say...perform some tests. I was going to send my newest lieutenant, Jorge, but now that you are back, I don't see why you shouldn't have a go."

"I don't understand."

"You will fight Jorge, in the box, in ten minutes. If you win, you take the job. If you don't..." he left Pele to draw his own conclusions. He had to fight and he had to win.

The 'box' was actually a circular clearing about half a mile from camp. In the box, two competitors would fight, usually for money. Often it was unarmed combat, occasionally knifes might be used. Pele stood in the middle of the box, sporting his black tank-top, olive-green trousers and combat boots, his regular fighting attire. Everyone else in the camp had gathered around the outside of the box, including several armed men, obviously placed there to prevent his escape. There was a cheer from the crowd as Jorge moved into the box. He was a large brawny man, similarly dressed, sans tank-top. Hernandez sized up his opponent. Jorge probably out weighed him by fifty kilos or so and at least fifteen years younger than his forty, meaning he'd also be stronger and faster. Naturally, Pele would have to rely on his experience and intuition. Estavez stood between the contestants, he would act as referee.

"_Alright boys, I want no holding back, don't pull your punches, especially you Jorge. Face each other, shake. Begin."_

As soon as Estevez was out of the box, standing next to Smith, they began. Predictably, the younger man wasted no time and charged straight in. Being the seasoned fighter that he was, Hernandez had no trouble reading and countering each move. Deflecting every punch, dodging each kick, breaking each hold. The crowd wasn't happy.

"_What are you doing Hernandez?"_

"_Get in there and fight like a man!"_

Jorge swung a wild right hook, Pele ducked in under his guard and landed a combo of quick punches. The big man staggered a little, but didn't fall, instead he reached around and pulled him into a bear-hug. Pele could feel his lungs being crushed up against his rib cage, but managed to throw his head forward, catching his opponent under the chin. Jorge loosened his grip long enough for Hernandez to slip out. For a moment, he forgot that the other man was fast as well, a mistake that allowed Jorge to land a blow to the jaw. He snapped his head back, going with the punch, which otherwise could have easily broken his neck. Another punch connected with his shoulder sending him spinning backwards. He regained his balance and braced himself for the next attack. Jorge charged, but this time he was ready. At the last moment, Pele jumped aside kicked his adversary just below the waist. Jorge- neither down nor out- kept swinging, but the smaller man was constantly moving. He tucked and rolled along the ground, out of range, before getting up and running to the edge of the ring. The guards raised their weapons, but Hernandez wasn't trying to escape. Instead, he jumped up at the tree in front of him, placed one foot on the tree and pushed off. He twisted in mid-air as his momentum carried him back towards Jorge. He extended both legs and hit Jorge square in the chest, knocking him over. Pele flung out his arms as he landed on his back, to break his fall and was up in an instant. But Jorge lashed out with one meaty arm, grabbed his ankle and brought him down. Pele did not want to grapple with a heavier opponent on the ground and quickly broke free, moving out of reach again. By now, Jorge was getting angry, but had learned his lesson about just charging in. He snapped a thick branch off and brandished it like a club. Estavez did not stop the match. Things had now gone to the next level. Avoiding the branch, Pele knew he'd have to end it immediately. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one man standing to close to the edge of the box. Dodging the makeshift weapon, Pele snatched the pistol from the man's holster, aimed and fired two shots. The bullets hit Jorge in the hand and shoulder, making him howl in pain and drop the branch. Pele shifted his aim, so that the pistol was pointed directly at the big man's forehead.

"_Don't move, or the next one is between your eyes."_

Some of the crowd voiced their disapproval of the underhand tactic, but most of them cheered.

"Well done Pele. You've still got it_," _Hugo said._ "_I think we all know who the winner is.

"Indeed Mr. Estavez. Your man here has certainly got what it takes. He's hired."

"_Pele?"_

Hernandez sighed. It wasn't hard to figure out what would happen if he refused the offer. But maybe they would leave him alone when the job was over.

"Sure thing Mr. Smith. Let's go."

To Be Continued...again...


	4. Meet the Spy Meet the Ninja

(_As promised, the next part of what is now officially my longest fanfic EVER! Sorry for the delay, and ENJOY!)_

It was a straight forward mission really, eliminate a another agent working for a foreign government. In fact it was his speciality. The fact that his target – an British secret service agent- was in his home country of France, only sweetened the deal. The man was known as _Le Fantôme_ , or 'The Spectre'; as legally, officially and technically, he did not exist. He had known name, although he _did_ have plenty of ersatz identities. One alias that he commonly favoured was Pascal Ladoux, the name he was currently going by. Thanks to one of his numerous underworld contacts, he was able to pinpoint the location of his target, right down to the number of the hotel room he was staying at. Ladoux had to admit, he admired the man's choice of accommodation. Another man who also appreciated the finer things in life.

His infiltration of the hotel had gone without a hitch. Rather than checking in as another patron, he 'borrowed' a uniform from one of the workers. Shielding his face as inconspicuously as possible from the genuine staff members, he took the elevator to the top floor.

"Ah madame, you had better hurry downstairs, the restaurant will be closing soon," he said to an elderly lady as she passed him in the hallway. Once he was alone, he drew his revolver and attached the silencer. Crossing over to his target's room, he knocked on the door.

"Pardonnez moi, monsieur, I have an important message for you."

He heard some muffled cursing before the door finally opened.

"Bloody hell, can't you read the sign? Do not disturb?"

Ladoux did read the sign. It mean nothing to him. He looked his target up and down. The Englishman was wearing nothing but a pair of black silken boxer shorts, the way that his blonde hair was tousled suggested that he had been engaged in some amorous activity.

"Well, what is it?"

"If you could step this way monsieur," Ladoux said, gesturing to the left. The enemy agent grumpily complied. Ladoux raised his handgun.

"Compliments of Le Fantôme " he said and pulled the trigger three times. The British agent took two shots in the chest and one in the throat and was dead before he hit the floor. Pascal crouched down next to the fresh corpse. "Thank-you for not bleeding on me my friend." He had brought with him one of the carts used to transport dirty linen and stuffed the body inside, covering it with a few sheets. It was disappointing really, he had expected more resistance from his target, but he had been caught with his trousers down as it were.

"James? Is everything okay?" came a voice from inside the room. "Are you coming back to bed?"

Ladoux smirked. The voice belonged to a woman, probably in her late twenties to early thirties. American by the sounds of things. He was tempted to go into the room and show her how a _real _man did things. The English just did not have the same finesse and skill as the French when it came to making fine food, making wine and making love. Nevertheless, his orders were to get in, make the hit and then get out.

"I am afraid he had to step out outside to take make an important call."

"But he's only wearing his underwear!"

"It is a _very_ important call. Good night mademoiselle."

"Oh. Good night." She sounded disappointed. He decided to leave before he changed his mind.

Calling the lift, he couldn't help but be reminded of one of his earliest missions. He had been charged with retrieving stolen information from a renegade agent, who planned to sell governmental intelligence to the highest bidders in the underworld. He had been told that the data was stored on the man's computer and needed to be duplicated, then wiped with a virus that would destroy any trace of the information that may have already leaked onto the internet. What he _hadn't _been told was that the rogue operative was still at home and more than willing to shoot him. What he _hadn't _been told was that he would have to fight back with a desk lamp, marking his first kill. Ladoux, normally not a man given to living in the past, being more concerned with being a professional who didn't make mistakes. Unfortunately, he _did_ make a mistake.

The moment he stepped into the foyer, he sensed danger. Security guards were blocking the main entrance as the police pulled up to the hotel. Cordoning off the area, a few of them began questioning both guests and staff members. Apparently a somebody had been found crammed into their own locker with a slit throat and stripped of his uniform. One poor receptionist was in hysterics. Obviously he wasn't getting out that way. He turned on his heel and made for the restaurant.

"_Excuse me sir, could we talk to you for a moment,"_ asked a guard. Cursing under his breath, Ladoux broke into a run.

"S_top right there!"_

He heard footsteps from behind and risked a glance. Two security guards were chasing after him, joined by a courageous porter. He burst through the kitchen doors and headed for the exit, his pursuers not far behind. The kitchen was virtually empty, except for a large, formidable looking chef being interviewed by a police officer.

"_Stop that man!" _called one of the guards. Ladoux stopped running. He only had three rounds left in his revolver, not enough for five men and he didn't have time to sneak around and stab them from behind. Hand-to-hand combat was the best option. His thick leather gloves provided enough heat resistance to grab the pot of boiling water on the stove and fling it's contents onto the porter. The man fell back shrieking, his hands and face already beginning to blister. After a moments hesitation, the younger of the two guards threw a punch. Ladoux blocked it, snaked his forearm around and gave a vicious jerk. There was a snap and the guard yelled in pain. Keeping his grip on his opponent, Ladoux pivoted around to deliver a judo-chop to the neck of the second guard – who had been coming up from behind- before turning back and dealt the first guard a devastating left-hook to the temple. Three down, two to go. The chef had held back, stopping to pick up a meat cleaver and began swinging it wildly. Ladoux ducked and snatched up a carving knife. Dodging the cleaver, he plunged the knife into the chef's wrist and drove a palm into his face. The cook fell back bleeding against a bench, gasping for air. He heard the sound of a pistol cocking behind him, drew his revolver, whirled and dropped the policeman with a single shot. Observing his handiwork, the man smirked and walked out. In the alleyway behind the hotel, he ditched the uniform and his now bloodied gloves, hiding them in a nearby dumpster. Once again, he was the cold, calculating professional that he usually was. Nobody paid any attention to the well-dressed man walking to his car, parked just a few metres down from the entrance to the hotel. Not when there were squad cars and ambulances gathered at the scene of a crime.

Something was different. Something that was not quite right. After a quick inspection, he found a small piece of paper tucked neatly away under his windshield. He frowned and unfolded it. There was a local phone number written down upon it. Although Ladoux usually worked with the French government, he would get a job on occasion from an a different country, if the price was right. He didn't even bother looking around to see if he could find whoever had left the message. Often, the people charged with recruiting him tried to remain as anonymous as possible -the man did have one hell of a reputation - and their agent would be long gone. He got into his car, drove five streets down, parked and then went over to a public phone booth. Inserting the appropriate coins, he dialled the number that had been left for him.

"The Spectre, I presume?" It was a woman's voice. Pascal grinned, this was becoming very interesting.

"I am _Le _Fantôme_," _he replied, hiding the disgust in his voice. He hated the English language. "Who might you be?"

"My name is unimportant. I have a job proposition for you."

"Ah, straight into the business I see. A pity." The woman ignored his remark.

"I represent Reliable Excavation and Demolitions. We'd like to hire you to participate in a few specialist tests. You will be well paid, however this must be top secret."

"Well I am a man of espionage after all chérie.''

''Does that mean you accept."

"Qui."

"Very will, just give me your current location, I will drop by to pick you up personally."

"I am looking forward to doing business with you."

* * *

"We are looking forward to doing business with you Mr. Chang_," _said Yamato with a broad grin. "It has long been my wish to strengthen our ties with the Triads. To a lifelong partnership between the the Yakuza and our brothers." He raised his cup of sake in a toast and the Chinese man followed suit. After many years of rivalry, the two gangs were attempting to make peace. Mr. Chang and several of his goons had agreed to meet Japanese mobster in order to discuss the trading of goods at the Jade Dragon Sushi Palace. Ken Yamato was accompanied by only one man, Koga Shintaro, his best and brightest. Although the Triad members were supposed to have left their weapons outside, Shintaro was still on high alert. He had refused any alcohol, much to the amusement of his employer, knowing that he would need all of his wits about him. Although he did order a bowl of lentil soup.

"Indeed Mr. Yamoto. We hope that we can reach an agreement that is beneficial to both of us."

"The Yakuza has access to some of the greatest technical minds in all of Japan. It is no trouble to arrange for the designs for every significant advancement in medical, military or agricultural technology to be sent to you for mass production. In return, we'd like regular quarterly shipments of firearms and certain...substances. We'd also like fifteen percent of whatever money you make through the use of our patents."

"No. We will supply the weapons and drugs, but we will not split our profits."

"Fifteen percent or no deal."

"Are you sure you cannot compromise?"

"We cannot."

"Very well then. I had hoped it wouldn't come to this," said Mr. Chang, getting up to leave. "But I was given strictest instructions have you eliminated should this deal fall through. Goodbye."

He signaled to his men, who each drew a pistol from their inner-coat pockets.

"You treacherous swine!"

Shintaro leaped to his feet in and in an instant, grabbed Chang, holding a knife to his throat.

"Tell them to drop their guns," said the bodyguard. Chang barked the orders for his men to stand down. The men lowered their weapons. But something was wrong. His head began to swim and the room became blurry. His soup must have been drugged! His legs crumpled beneath him and he released the Triad leader. The last thing he saw was the Chinese scooping up their weapons and opening fire on Yamato.

As Shintaro lay unconscious in the back of an unmarked white van, he began to dream about his past. Flashbacks, as they were called in the movies. His early life as a lonely street urchin, his rescue from a wild dog by a kindly old man who took him in and taught him the many disciplines of ninjutsu, until he passed away, leaving the young man alone again. Using his ninja training, Shintaro became a debt collector, thug or even assassin for anyone in the criminal underworld willing to pay him. Including Yamato.

It was an hour- perhaps longer- until he woke up. The first thing he noticed was the cool breeze on his face, all over his body in fact. Opening his eyes, he saw the ground five stories below him. He was suspended upside down from what was probably once a lamp-post atop an old apartment downtown, a rope tied around his feet.

"Nice view isn't it?"

Shintaro looked up and saw a familiar face smirking at him.

"Saru!"

The man standing before him was an old comrade from one of his previous jobs. Saru and Koga had been hired as bodyguards for a Korean businessmen. Just as they arrived at the airport for the return journey, they were ambushed by a gang of local thugs. Although they managed to fight them off, Saru was injured when one gang member set off Molotov cocktail, while Shintaro escaped relatively unharmed. He required extensive surgery and multiple skin-grafts, leaving heavy scarring along both sides of his face. Rather than accept that perhaps he had gotten careless or even that it was a freak accident, he blamed his former partner.

"You know, it's funny how small the world really is. And how you and I keep bumping into each other. I honestly had no idea that by hiring myself out to the Triad would lead me back to you. Chang wanted you shot there and then, but I convinced him to let me finish you myself. And believe me, you are going to pay tenfold for what you did to me."

"Saru, that was not my fault. You knew the stakes when you signed on for the job."

"Shut the hell up! You were supposed to have my back!"

Anything else they had to tell each other remained unsaid when another of Chang's men interrupted.

"Mr. Chang is on the phone for you."

"Fine. Keep an eye on the prisoner."

"Yes sir."

Saru went downstairs to take the call and the other man sat down at the table and casually lit a cigarette. As soon as Saru left, Shintaro silently assessed the situation. Naturally his weapons had been confiscated, which meant his enemies would think that he didn't pose a threat. A deadly assumption that he could use to his advantage. And there was one carefully concealed tool that his captors had overlooked. Grateful they hadn't bothered to bind his arms as well, Shintaro waited until the momentum swung him around so that his back was to the guard. He flicked his arm in a manner that to his observer would look like a futile attempt to struggle out of his bonds, when in reality he was shaking loose the object hidden in his sleeve and caught it as it dropped out. It was a _metsubushi_ or "eye-closer", one of the many techniques used by a ninja to temporarily blind and disorient an opponent. This particular _metsubushi _consisted of ground pepper and sand kept inside a small, hollowed-out glass egg, or _happo_. Crushing the container in his hand, he waited until he swung around and faced the guard again. Then he blew the powder into the guard's face, who – caught off guard screamed and clawed at his face. Shintaro had maneuvered his bodyweight so that he could swing over to the ledge. He grabbed the guards lapel with one hand and punched him square across the jaw with the other. Now came the tricky part. He took the pistol from the holster beneath the guard's jacket, flicked the safety off and twisted around. It was a one in a million shot, but he managed to sever the rope with a single bullet and he fell forwards over the parapet, landing on top of the other man. Moving swiftly, he untied his legs then made for the door. He descended the stairs, slowly and cautiously, pistol at the ready. He tested the first door he came to. It was locked. The second door wasn't, however and he entered the room. A Triad gang-member was lying asleep on a couch in front of the television. Thanks to his training, he was able to sneak right up behind the guard with as little sound as possible. He decided not to waste a bullet on a sleeping man and tapped his forehead with the barrel of the gun, then a harder tap with the butt of the pistol when the man's eyes opened and he sat up in surprise.

It was unlikely that Saru would be careless enough to bring back his former partner's weapons to the apartment, so he'd have to rely on his stolen pistol. Apart from the one shot he had already fired, he had a full clip. He'd have to be careful, he didn't know how many Triad members were in the building or to what extent they were armed. Every bit of his training would have to come into play here if he was to survive.

Shintaro heard footsteps coming up the stairs. No doubt Saru had received orders to finish him without delay, so that they could move on to other business. A series of enraged shouts came from the balcony as they discovered that their prisoner had escaped. Three men kicked open the door, pistols at the ready, scanning the room for him. Finding no-one in the room they left and moved down the hallway. Shintaro, who was hanging from the window ledge, underneath the flower box, hoisted himself back up through the window. The first Triad member to exit the room came face-to-muzzle with the Beretta.

_Blam!_

Before the body even hit the floor, Shintaro flung himself around the corner as the others brought up their own weapons to fire. A second Triad rushed into the room, gun held in both hands. Shintaro kicked out and the thug received a door to the face, then three bullets to the chest. Seeing both of his companions fall, the last one fled, racing downstairs. Koga retrieved their weapons then followed the man downstairs, a pistol in each hand in front of him.

Saru was waiting for him downstairs.

"You murdering snake," he said, aiming both guns at the head of the man he had once called a friend, "You Chinese friends executed my unarmed client, when all he wanted was a peaceful negotiation. He was no threat."

"Yes it certainly is tragic isn't it?" Saru replied mockingly. "But you see these days, money holds _much_ more power than honor and virtue."

"I should shoot you now!"

"Yes. Or we could take a more…_interestin_g approach." Saru indicated a pair of _ninjato_ swords. "You aren't the only one who studied swordplay. I propose a duel to the death, since you are such a big fan of honor. You have a dead boss to avenge, I want revenge for my disfigurement, so we both have a reason. Put down the guns and we'll settle like they did back your old country. What do you say?"

Shintaro decided that he would play along for now and dropped the pistols. Saru tossed over a sword. Shintaro barely had time to catch the sword before his opponent was upon him. Leading with a strong vertical slash, Saru parried the counter-attack and followed up with a stab to the throat. Shintaro twisted aside and swiped back. It was clear that both fighters were evenly matched, as they traded blows and leaped over furniture. Suddenly a machete was in Saru's other hand and he attacked with twice the ferocity. The new weapon quickly turned the tide in favor of Saru, who easily drove back his old friend when he tried to reach his guns.

"See…" Saru said, breathing heavily. "I'm not bound by any code of honor, so I can fight dirty."

A sharp kick to the mid-section sent Shintaro sprawling onto the ground who rolled and ended in a crouch. Before Saru could try for a finishing blow, Shintaro reached around and grabbed the guard's stolen revolver he had tucked into the belt at the back of his pants and fired. Saru fell back onto the couch, stunned and clutching at the growing red stain on his chest.

"You have me confused with a Samurai," Koga said coldly. "It's just like you said, I'm only in it for the money. The fact that you kidnapped me and tried to have me killed was just the icing on the cake. Can't make money if I'm dead now, can I? Nice try though."

He thought about finishing it there and then, but the wailing of approaching sirens told him that he had to get out of there and fast.

"Until next time _old friend_."

Shintaro left by the back door. He _had_ wanted to take his time with it, but hoping that the scum would bleed out before an ambulance arrived would have to suffice.

The grey- suited man sighed as his mark turned into yet _another_ store. He had been tailing the Japanese man for the last hour and was getting sick of it. He stopped outside the newsstand, pretending to browse the racks. He would wait two minutes and then follow him into the shop. Until he felt something poke him at the base of his spine, followed by the click of a revolver, primed to shoot.

"Walk," a harsh voice in his ear commanded and they walked. The man cursed himself. It was bad enough to lose the target, but for Shintaro to actually double back and get the drop on him was just plain amateurish.

"You've been following me for eleven blocks now. Either you have a real hard-on for me or you're here to kill me."

"Neither actually Mr. Shintaro."

The assassin turned and saw a man dressed in powder blue sitting in the back seat of a gun-metal grey sedan.

"He was following you under my orders. My name is Smith, of the Builders League United. I've heard a great deal about you Mr. Shintaro and I wanted to see your skill for myself."

"And?"

"I'm quite impressed. Even I didn't see you approach, and I was watching _him _ from back here," Smith inclining his head at the other man, who was still at gunpoint. "I have another job proposition for you. If you would be so kind as to step into the car, we can discuss it."

"I don't think so. My last contract was abruptly…terminated."

"I'd heard about that. Nevertheless, I am offering you twice as much, plus, you'll be leaving the country. You'd start right away."

Shintaro thought about it then shrugged.

"Alright."

"Excellent."

The sedan drove off, leaving the other man standing on the footpath.

"What about my money?" he said to no-one in particular, sighed then headed back to his hotel.


End file.
